


The Minds of Men

by nookienostradamus



Series: The Hearts of Men [2]
Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Descriptions of child abuse, Drinking, Feuding, Hand Jobs, Immaturity, Insults, Jealousy, John is smitten and too stupid to realize it, Laszlo somehow manages to pompously grovel, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of canon minor character death, Mentions of mutilation, Mild Anthropology, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Period-typical racism against Native Americans, Philosophy, Sara Howard's Righteous Anger, U.S. History, Victorian Cocktails, Yet More Testosterone Poisoning, dead children, posturing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 00:27:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14008137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nookienostradamus/pseuds/nookienostradamus
Summary: John and Laszlo have come together, as they always do, to nurse the wounds of Pentecost Eve. Tension and anger remain between John, Laszlo, and Sara...and Mary is not about to let John off lightly for the injury he caused her benefactor. Meanwhile, an expert provides an important clue to the investigation and also manages to set John off into a fit of jealousy he doesn't yet understand. After Sara shares a breakthrough she's made, John makes a breakthrough of his own—one that will permanently change the way he and Laszlo interact.





	The Minds of Men

**Author's Note:**

> Mix one part book, one part show. Add dash of "shit I completely made up" for flavor. Shake without beta; possibly a little messy. Serve over ice. Enjoy.
> 
> Update: Laszlo is a lefty, of course. I, on the other hand (ha, ha), am an unobservant dumbass.

John looked not at the poor, mangled body of Ernst Lohmann, called “Rosie” during the last months of his brief life. He had seen enough. Instead, he watched Laszlo’s face—immobile to any other observer, but to those who knew him intimately progressing through a series of emotions: disbelief, anger, pity, hopelessness. Conveyed with the twitch of an eyelid or a slight turn at the corner of the mouth, but as plain to John just then as would be the overwrought throes of a pantomime actor.

He clutched at his chest as sympathy for his friend took hold. The gesture was a solid approximation of shock.

Lucius was candid and clinical as he went about his observations, only once raising the sheet covering the raw swath where the Lohmann boy’s sex had been.

At that, John had to look away.

Laszlo did not flinch. After Lucius’s assessment, the Doctor begged a moment alone with the remains, though for what purpose John could not guess.

Standing outside the morgue door, his own thoughts were as deep as the boy’s wounds—and as haphazard as they seemed. Hand removed at the wrist, the genitals gone; these were the same as the others had been. But only a single eye taken...and what of the scalping? John’s experience with the country’s Indian tribes was so pathetically spare that all his imagination could conjure was a war-painted and be-feathered man—bare-chested and in buckskin trousers—wandering the streets of Manhattan with his gory knife in hand. Ridiculous; such a thing would stick out like a sore thumb.

And the heart removed.

_The heart removed._

Half-unaware, John passed his fingertips over his lips, now recalling not the cold flesh on the coroner’s table but the warm nape of Laszlo’s neck, spiced with the scent of exertion and his hair cream.

“Are you ill, John?” asked Sara. She herself looked paler than usual.

“No,” he said stiffly. The notion of becoming accustomed to such sights was now more troubling than the sights themselves. “Thank you, no. Only...thinking.”

Sara nodded, then looked out toward the street rather than at the closed door behind which Laszlo conducted his apocryphal business. In the last day or so she had fretted over John and the purple blinker by his eye, now fading into shades of green and yellow. She had not said as much as a word directly to Laszlo—for good reason.

Still looking away, she said, softly, “Look at us, John. All of us. We _are_ that body.” She turned her head to face him, the expression in her eyes unreadable. “Torn.” A pause, in which she swallowed audibly. “Useless.”

John frowned. “We’ve still got our heart.” He didn’t dare look toward the inner door.

A sour twist to her mouth. “Have we?”

To that, John had nothing to say. He’d always thought of himself as a hopeful man, though that hope was beginning to look misplaced at best and, at worst, foolishly naïve. If their ragtag group was unable to recover its singular purpose, mangled by internal strife, more boys would die. However optimistic he could be, John could see no way around shouldering the responsibility for those deaths.

He scowled and shook his head. The hunger that had flown upon seeing Lohmann’s body returned then to pull at his stomach. And though it was well before noon, he craved a glass of the good Highland malt he had stashed away in his wardrobe. The cut crystal facets of the tumbler would at least feel solid below his fingertips, the taste of the liquor certain and bracing.

After a while, Laszlo emerged from the inner chamber, tacit, with hat in hand.

Sara turned at once to leave; Marcus and Lucius followed suit a moment after, each with a grave nod. After all, following the grim discoveries within the morgue’s frigid examination chamber, nothing was left to be said for the moment.

The briefest and most humorless smile to have ever crossed a human face flickered over Laszlo’s as he looked at John. His voice was soft and dull. “I thought I might pay a visit to Boas at the Museum,” he said, worrying the felt brim of his bowler. “Perhaps he can offer us insight into our killer’s Indian ancestry. If it indeed exists.” Implicit in Laszlo’s pause was a request for John’s company on what could well be another dead-end path.

Need for a drink—for the press of cool bed linens and the welcome oblivion of sleep—tugged hard at John, but he judged it best to ignore the urges.

Laszlo requested use of the building’s telephone to ring Stevie and summon the calash.

He and John waited streetside under morning cloud cover—two men adrift in a city made suddenly unfamiliar and menacing.

“You’ve been icing the bruise as I suggested?” asked Laszlo.

“Yes. Off and on.” Truth be told, John had only done so once, and that the evening after Laszlo had left his grandmother’s home. The ice-chips wrapped in a handkerchief had dulled the throb of the wound, but had done nothing for the curious feeling of bereavement that had begun when Lazslo had woken, groggy, to find John curled behind him in the guest bed. Bit by bit, in silence, skin that was bare had been covered again: layers of armor shielding the tenderness below from daily assault. John had stumbled through the remainder of the afternoon with a fog inside his skull he knew could not be blamed on the blow to his face. He had made a sandwich from rough slices of stale bread but had eaten only one bite, and had slept poorly when at last he tried, his skin hot and prickling.

“It looks better,” said Laszlo. That was as near to an apology as could be expected from the stoic Doctor Kreizler he presented to the world.

“So does your lip.” John pulled the linen square from his pocket and dabbed at his nape. “I suppose Mary was, ah, dismayed.”

A huff from Laszlo. Impossible to tell if it was wry or regretful. “Decidedly. I’ve taken many a child to task for play-yard scuffles at the Institute, but I hope I’ve never looked at one with such bitter disappointment as she did me.” He looked up at the sky as a brief blue window appeared in the cloud cover. “I was a half-hour struggling with my boots before I quite gave up and slept in them.”

John was tempted to needle him about the tense state of affairs between him and Sara, but for a man as prideful as Laszlo, the indignity of sleeping in his boots was punishment enough for the time being. Anyway, it was evident he had not yet made the effort to apologize to her, if he intended to at all. Blithely ignoring his own inclination, John cursed his friends’ stubbornness as he and Laszlo boarded the carriage and were on their way. If neither Sara nor the Doctor would yield, the investigation still needed a heart if it was to succeed—and, by God, he would step into that place if it meant hauling both around by their respective collars, clinging like a bowline tethering a storm-tossed boat.

He had met Franz Boas once before. The renowned anthropologist for the city’s American Museum of Natural History was a compact, curly-headed man with a bulbous nose and a merry disposition. John might have enjoyed his first and only encounter with the man much more had Boas and Laszlo not kept slipping mid-conversation into their native German, leaving John baffled and uncomfortable. The sharp and throaty tongue seemed no language a human mouth should be able to form. Yet they did so with ease, again and again. It had been hard to shake the feeling that the men’s laughter—Boas’s loud and Laszlo’s subdued—came once or twice at John’s expense. His lazy year or two of French study before college did him no good whatsoever. At the end, he’d been reduced to tapping his foot on the inlaid museum floor to remind the two men of his presence. It was hardly John’s fault if the roots of his lineage reached no further than the distance from Shropshire to Scotland.

Stevie pulled up alongside the stately edifice of the Museum, tutting gently to Frederick the gelding. Both horse and boy seemed more than happy to wait there as Laszlo requested; the sun was creeping out little by little, dispelling fears of rain and presaging a lovely spring day.

Laszlo and John reached the front doors and John looked back to see the boy had lit up a cigarette and was taking a satisfied pull. Stevie’s habit was one that his benefactor ignored.

Inside the cavernous and dust-smelling halls, Boas greeted them with great warmth, shaking both men’s hands for many long moments.

John could tell the Doctor was heartened by the opportunity to feel useful after the Lohmann boy’s _post mortem_.

Boas, despite his catalogue of a mind, informed them that the history of the country’s natives was not under his _ægis_. He had, however, a young protegé who would be lecturing around the city for the next two weeks. It happened that the man, Dr. Clark Wissler, about whom Boas was effusive, specialized in Indian traditions.

They came upon Wissler treading the artificially sandy ground of a half-finished diorama. He had his sleeves rolled up above his elbows and his suspenders dangling at thigh level. Around his feet lay replica clay pots with Indian _motif_ patterns. The background was painted a sunset-red and depicted houses carved from the stone of the cliffs.

Shoved off into one corner, John was amused to note, was a taxidermied fox, tilting on stiff, unsteady legs as John himself might be after a night of indulgence.

When Boas cleared his throat, Wissler turned and drew a forearm across his brow. His hair and mustaches were a bright auburn, nearly as red as the painted cliffs behind him. His skin was bronzed by exposure to strong sunlight. No doubt a result of his having been out West—and recently, at that. It made him look hale and energetic.

Although John was glad for the man’s apparent proximity to his subject of expertise, he felt pale as a fish’s belly in comparison. Growing up, he and his brother had been brown as walnuts from April until September with all their outdoor play. Laszlo would probably go as red as a broiled lobster if he dared to step out hatless for ten minutes.

“How humiliating is it?” Boas asked as Wissler stepped down onto the marble floor.

Wissler laughed and brushed his hands off on the knees of his trousers. “Franz, your Museum should only be half humiliated.”

Boas put a hand over his heart, a feminine-looking gesture that made John stifle a laugh. “Tell me the damage. Don’t spare me.”

“Well, these _are_ the Mesa Verde cliff dwellings in Colorado,” Wissler said. “Only the geologic information is incorrect. Mesa Verde sandstone is _yellow_. _Red_ sandstone, concentrated around the Manitou Springs area, is located a few hundred miles to the east.”

“Oh, dear.” Boas shook his head, looking down at his polished shoe-tips.

“Only a matter of a re-paint, old fellow,” Wissler said. “Perhaps a few more scrub-bushes. Oh! And the patterns on those urns are Anasazi, not Pueblo.”

“And the fox?” John chimed in.

Wissler looked his way, pinning him with vibrant blue eyes. “Fox?”

John gestured over at the corner.

A look, and then Wissler laughed. “ _Vulpes macrotis_. Native to the area.” He crossed his tanned arms over his chest. “The fox can stay.”

If he was not mistaken, John heard Boas breathe a sigh of relief.

“Clark, my good man,” the anthropologist said, “let me introduce you to these gentlemen. Dr. Laszlo Kreizler is a pre-eminent alienist. His work is known across the world. As such, we are quite lucky that he calls New York his home.”

Laszlo put out his hand with the slightest hesitation, as if he fully expected a robust specimen like Wissler to use a crushing grip. Wissler seemed attuned to his physical delicacy, though. He gave a solid but not bruising shake. “I’m afraid I don’t know your work,” he said. “But the mind is not my purview, Dr. Kreizler.”

“‘Laszlo’ is fine, thank you, sir.”

“No ‘sir.’ Call me Clark.” Wissler turned. “And you are?”

“Ah,” Boas said, “this is Mr. John Schuyler Moore.”

John was about to open his mouth in order to explain his profession, but Boas went on.

“He is a reporter for our esteemed _New York Times_. Quite the man about town.”

Unsure as to whether he should take the latter appellation as a mild jab, John was nonetheless impressed that Laszlo’s friend remembered his employer.

Wissler took a much rougher hold of John’s hand, clenching hard and forcing John to bear down in kind. He’d rather be caught dead drunk and trouserless than wincing at a handshake.

“Pleasure to meet you both,” said Wissler. “What can I do for you?”

Boas deferred the explanation to Laszlo, who gave a concise and but graphic description of what had befallen poor Ernst Lohmann. Obviously still unsettled in the extreme by the conversation, Boas patted Laszlo on the arm and said something unintelligible that might have been German.

Laszlo answered him just as tacitly and he hurried off, shoe-soles clipping on the tiles.

“I don’t blame him,” John said, watching the stout figure hurry off. “Imagine having to _see_ it.”

“I’ve seen it,” Wissler said, but then shook his head. “Not with children, however.”

Much to their disappointment—Laszlo’s especially—it became clear as Wissler explained that no one of true Indian ancestry would have mutilated the Lohmann boy in that way. It would be seen as a cowardly act.

“Perhaps, though,” Laszlo said, a measure of brightness returning to his voice, “we are not looking at someone of Indian extraction but a man who _knows of_ these brutal practices. Or has even witnessed them.”

“The letter to Mrs. Santorelli,” John piped up.

Laszlo nodded. “He wrote ‘dirtier than a Red Injun.’ It’s highly doubtful a man would speak that way of his own heritage, but if he had seen and was...emotionally affected by the mutilations…”

Wissler scratched his chin. “That’s much more believable, if you ask me.”

“Didn’t Indian tribes sometimes capture white children?” John asked. “I mean, in the height of the ambushes?”

“Less often than is believed in popular myth, Mr. Moore,” said Wissler. There was the barest hint of condescension in his tone.

“We need to consider every possibility, Mr.—Clark, that is,” Laszlo told him. “‘Remote,’ as prospects go, does not mean ‘impossible.’”

It seemed, however mildly, that Laszlo was coming to John’s defense.

John shot an insouciant grin at Wissler.

“I doubt your man has ever had a positive encounter with an Indian,” Wissler said, “if he wrote what you say he did. You said it was a letter to—?”

Laszlo scratched at his beard, stalling for time. “Ah…”

For his part, John had no trouble stepping in to quash the interrogation. “Confidential police business. We really can’t discuss aspects of the case until it’s resolved.”

Wissler’s eyes narrowed. “I see. Are you a policeman moonlighting as a reporter, Mr. Moore? Or a reporter moonlighting as a policeman?”

A sharp clearing of Laszlo’s throat dispelled the combative tension somewhat. “Your insights have been enlightening, Clark,” he said. “Should I—or my investigative team—have further questions, may we call on you?”

“Certainly, Laszlo,” Wissler said, looking at John. “Franz has been so kind as to allow me to stay at his home. Perhaps you should join us for dinner one night. I lived with a family of German immigrants in the Utah territory—what is now the _state_ , of course. I forget. It’s been only a few months! In any case, my grasp of the language is passable.”

“Very kind of you,” Laszlo said. “I will bear that in mind.”

“A pleasure,” Wissler said, shaking Laszlo’s hand again. His shake of John’s hand was cursory. “Mr. Moore.” Then he turned his back on them and mounted the raised floor of the diorama again.

Whatever Indian tribe or tribes the pots were meant to represent, John hoped Wissler stepped on one.

 

*

 

John and Laszlo had parted ways for the day following the visit to the Museum. In spite of John’s annoyance with the Wissler fellow’s presumption, he had felt—as Laszlo had—heartened by the idea of progress.

The next step was a thorough review of files, searching for a connection to the West among the criminal element in the city. John was loath to admit to a primitive and masculine longing to see the land’s wilder portions. Even though he had missed out by dint of age and breeding on the major westward push, his boyhood had been filled with tales of the lawless frontier: hardscrabble towns, men hard as leather, Indian raids, _vaqueros_ , and veins of gold thick as a grown man’s arm running through the desert stone. Not to mention rills of whisky that flowed like the spring of Moses. On second thought, were he out there, he might be more content to imbibe under an awning next to the gramophone than to sleep rough, saddle-sore and sun-burned and prey for biting insects.

A night or two later, after an interminable tea with his grandmother and her doddering theater-patron friend (the idea that Phillip Hager, with his white mutton-chop whiskers, might also be her secret paramour was one he did _not_ care to entertain), John calmed his nerves with a walk to Number 808 Broadway as the brassy evening sun began to touch the rooftops. Someone had already lit a lamp against the encroaching dark. He guessed it might be Laszlo, but found himself quite mistaken when he reached the top of the stairs.

Sara’s silver-blonde head was bowed over a mass of paper the organization of which John could hardly guess at. She looked up and gave him a wan smile.

“I’d have thought Marcus and Lucius would be here,” John said.

“They were,” she said simply.

“Working through dinner, then? Atta girl.”

“I’m not certain I would have been welcome.” The prim twist of her mouth told John she was trying not to smile. “Marcus was attempting to keep quiet the fact that he had a planned rendezvous with a young lady.”

John raised his eyebrows.  

Sara allowed the smile to touch her lips then. “Lucius, on the other hand, cheerfully made it clear his brother was keen to save his energy for a less mental type of exertion.”

“The absolute _hound_ ,” John said, impressed. “Who knew?” He chuckled and scratched his chin, noting it needed shaving. “If they’re willing to talk that way, it appears they believe you’re one of the boys now.” He doffed his hat. “ _Mister_ Howard.”

Sara shot him a disapproving look. “I don’t need to be one of the boys. I need them to know that not all ‘girls’ are prudish and sensitive.”

“I think you’re well beyond proving that, my dear.” John shucked his jacket and laid it aside. “Have you found anything interesting?”

Sara was suddenly cagey, going so far as to curl an arm around the set of documents she was reading, shielding them from view. “It’s possible.”

John huffed in mild affront. “I don’t intend to take credit for your lead.”

“No,” she said, “but _I_ intend to be the one pursuing it.”

“Planning to solve the case yourself?” he asked.

“I’ll let you know what I find, if anything.” Sara gathered up a few of the sheets, knocked them smartly on the tabletop to align them, then slipped them into a large paper envelope. “And Marcus and Lucius, of course, as they’ve been of enormous help over the past day or so.”

That she neglected to mention Laszlo’s name was no doubt intentional.

All the tip-toeing about between them made John irritated. “Don’t you think the man got what he deserved?” he asked. “I see no need to punish him further.”

She fixed him with a diamond-hard look. “John, your stepping in to defend my honor is not a substitute for a direct apology. _From_ Kreizler. Not on his behalf.”

“He’s aware how badly he overstepped the line,” said John. “Trust me.”

Sara merely sniffed. “Are you his translator now? If I were him, I’m not sure I’d want a man with of your particular record with the fairer sex as the official interlocutor between the great alienist Laszlo Kreizler and the whole of womankind.”

John felt short of breath. Her words stung doubly, and were meant to, impugning both Laszlo and himself. “No, you certainly aren’t one of the boys,” he managed.

“And thank God for it!” Sara stomped her foot. “Why do you defend him? He blackened your eye! Furthermore, he of all people should know better. Look at Stevie and Cyrus! Not every man who suffered in childhood is doomed to grow up a—well...an irredeemable _prick_!”

John’s mouth dropped open on hearing her speak that way. He stuttered, “Ah, ah...you see, Laszlo...I’m not sure that in some ways he _has_ grown up. Or has moved on from that trauma. Below the hard exterior, he’s somewhat of a...tender soul. That’s why children take to him. I’m convinced of it.”

A haughty laugh. “And why women flee, most likely. No lady wants a child who can’t be raised because he sees himself as grown!” She paused, breathing heavily, still furious. “If his interest is in ladies at all, that is.”

Now John stepped forward, shaking a finger in Sara’s direction. “Slander!” he said. “It’s enough to be angry with Laszlo, but to accuse him of being—” He choked on any further words. Truth be told, he had never before pondered Laszlo’s sexual preference, as he hadn’t thought of Laszlo as a sexual being, full stop. _Previously_ : that being defined as the period prior to John having found himself pressed against the impossibly soft warmth of Laszlo’s naked skin. Before fighting and losing the battle against pushing his nose into hair that was surprisingly sweet-smelling and fine.

“A homosexual?” Sara finished for him. “There is no slander in that, not from me. It makes absolutely no matter what his private habits are. I am concerned only with how he conducts himself in public. Which is, frankly, unacceptable. He needs to be allowed to stumble, to fail and reap the consequences. Which he cannot do if _you_ , John Moore, continue to make excuses for him. ”

Fighting the urge to sulk, John said, “Laszlo is my friend.”

“Am I not?” Sara countered.

“You are,” he said. “And a good one. I don’t want to lose either of you.”

She straightened her blouse and raised her chin. “Then, _my friend_ , I’m asking you to draw on the reserves of courage I _know_ you possess and inform Dr. Kreizler that I expect a full and humble apology if we are to continue our partnership without strain.”

“I’ll speak to him,” John sighed. “I’m not sure Laszlo has a humble bone in his body, so I can’t guarantee he’ll meet your expectations—”

The words stopped short because Sara had seized a brass paper-weight from the table’s surface and hurled it at his head.

He dodged the missile, thrown with the speed of a base-ball but thankfully less accuracy, leaving it to clatter on the floorboards behind him. “Whoa, hey! What was that for?”

“To either drive sense into your skull or to drive Kreizler out!” she shouted. “The both of you—you’re incorrigible!”

“What happened to ‘let him stumble and fail?’”

“If he can’t muster a handful of sincere words, he may be beyond help,” Sara said, snarling. “Perhaps you should suggest he admit himself to his own Institution!”

John cringed, his hands flying up to protect his face as she grasped the table-lamp and brandished it like a weapon.

“Hell, maybe you can join him,” she continued. “That way he’ll have someone to button his boots. You may as well kiss them while you’re down there!” As punctuation, she shook the lamp. Its glass cover and crystal pendant beads rattled with near-breaking force.

“Good God!” John stumbled back toward the staircase. “That’s it—I’m leaving! It’s clear I can’t talk rationally with....with _either_ of you! I’m trapped between—” he hastily searched the tattered remnants of his education in the classics, trying to remember the name of the twin perils faced by Odysseus and his ship.

_Laszlo would know_.

“Whatever!” he finished lamely, then grabbed his jacket and hat and retreated down the stairs before Sara could lob another missile his way.

Outside, the streets echoed with the rattle of the occasional carriage, underlain by urgent evening birdsong. After taking a couple of breaths, John adjusted his waistcoat and ran a hand over his hair. Then he flagged down a hansom, giving Laszlo’s address to the driver in clipped tones.

A sense of uneasy familiarity surged within him when he saw the lone window illuminated on the second floor. He knew the layout of the house well enough to recognize it wasn’t Laszlo’s office. It was simply impossible that the work-obsessed Doctor would be in bed at this early hour. So either he was taking a solitary dinner in the kitchen, or he and Stevie had taken the calash and were elsewhere.

Clenching his teeth, John used the heavy brass knocker to rap three times on the door. No answer. After another fruitless try at it, he stepped back from the stoop, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Laszlo!” up at the lighted window. His expectations were low, but he did it again after a moment or two.

Hope sprung up momentarily when the window frame rattled. Someone had unlatched it. The panes swung aside on silent hinges and a shadowy figure appeared. When a braided rope of dark hair tumbled over one shoulder, John removed his hat. “Mary!” he called. “Good evening. Is Laszlo home?” He paused. “Would you mind, ah, coming to the door?”

He expected no verbal reply, but the mute woman merely stared, unmoving.

John stepped sideward into the wan glow of a street-lamp. “It’s John!” he called. “John Moore. Say, can I come in?” Squinting upward did nothing to make her expression clearer. He sighed.

Then, after a moment, Mary held up one hand with the palm facing out, her head surrounded by a corona of light.

John raised his hand in turn, relieved, as she disappeared from the window.

The light over the stoop did not come on after a minute, and he prepared himself to call again when a shadow reappeared in the upstairs window. Mary looked to be wrestling something heavy onto the sill.

John would be glad later that he’d chosen not to step forward, closer to the façade of the house, because a gush of liquid suddenly poured down from the sill. Its significant volume splashed on the sidewalk below. John stepped backward as rapidly as he could, but the foul tide still spattered his shoes and trouser-legs. For a horrified second, he was sure Mary had emptied a chamber pot on him. Then he smelled lye soap and old food.

_Dish water_.

Mouth agape, he looked up again.

Mary’s silhouette was soundly shaking the tub, relieving it of every last drop. She then hauled it inside again with a loud shuddering sound. One after the other, the window panes swung shut again, with curtains drawn violently afterward for good measure.

Speechless, John looked down at the suds and scraps by his feet, then upward for a final time at the darkened window. At a loss, he stomped a half-soaked foot, swearing loudly and rudely enough that a passing cab driver turned his head.

_To Hell with all of this_ , he thought. _It’s time to get a drink._

 

*

 

A line of sharply attired men and women waited along the high-windowed façade of Luchow’s. In fact, it stretched around the corner, and John wasn’t about to join up at the end like some plebeian. The walk had dried his trouser-legs and his spats, which had thankfully protected his socks from a thorough dousing. He did, however, have to liberate a dried scrap of carrot from the toe seam.

Foot-sore and in a foul mood, he took out his _Times_ credentials from his breast pocket and went up to the _maître d'hôtel_ , who stood in full white tie checking reservations. Brandishing the press card, John said, “I’m here to make a review.”

The man frowned. “We’ve already had a review from the _Times_. I believe it ran last week. Quite favorable,” he emphasized.

“Not the dining room,” John said, attempting to think on his feet. “The bar. I understand the cocktails are, ah, quite new and exquisite.”

Luck must have prevailed, as a smile broke over the face of the _maître d'hôtel_. “As a matter of fact, they are, sir. This is quite a new phenomenon, I must say. Rather revolutionary on the newspaper’s part.”

John cleared his throat and adjusted his bow-tie. “Oh, indeed.” If this meant he had to pseudonymously scribble out a fawning pæan to the establishment’s drink menu, so be it. The regular review, penned by Harold Pym Quinn—who was without a doubt the most pompous of the paper’s hundreds of staff members (even Ochs hated him)—had found little to quibble with in terms of presentation and menu. “It isn’t as if we’re planning to rate any old watering hole,” John finished.

A nod. “I’m certainly glad our quality is already recognized,” said the attendant. “You’ll find the bar to your left when you enter. A good thirty feet of inlaid ebony is the bar-top. A sight to behold.”

Impatient, John pocketed his credential card. “Yes, good. Any suggestions?”

“Do try our ‘Italian Sangaree.’ We substitute Chianti for Madeira, which I find much richer.”

That was a possibility John considered. He had never partaken of the popular “Sangaree,” as he hated Spanish wine with a passion approaching the Biblical.

As he tried to ease by the shocked and disappointed patrons who still had to wait for a table, the _maître d'hôtel_ tapped his shoulder.

John turned.

“Give the Basil Julip a go, as well,” the man said. “It’s sweeter than mint to compensate for the lack of the usual herb, but I predict it will be a popular thirst-quencher come summer.” Then he gave a wink. “You can quote me on that, if you like.”

At his wits’ end, John gave him a nod and pushed into the restaurant proper, greeted by the aroma of cigarettes and steak. Its familiarity spoke of civilization and merriment, and calmed his nerves at once. He veered left past a waiter laden with trays of golden _digestifs_ in tiny glasses, intending to try the full cocktail menu in alphabetical order.

The bar itself was, indeed, impressive—with winking mother-of-pearl inlay and brass fittings. He bellied up, more instantaneously content than a summer sparrow in a bird-bath. His options danced before him, printed on a small card, tantalizing in shades of cognac, rum, and brandy. “Basil Julip” came before “Gin Sling” alphabetically, although John was particularly fond of the latter, so he scrapped his initial plan and ordered it.

The bar-man had it up in short order, redolent and shining with chipped ice.

God, but John swore nothing had ever tasted better. He took the tall, slim glass and turned away from the bar-keepers hard at their tasks. The dining-room was clearly visible. A lucky (or _unlucky?_ ) glint from a chandelier picked out a head of wavy, copper-red hair, belonging to a man seated at a small table toward the periphery. The man looked up, displaying much to John’s dread the splendid auburn mustaches of one Clark Wissler. John turned so quickly he spilled some of his drink.

When he snuck a look back, it appeared Wissler had either failed to see him or was ignoring him. However, the gentleman he sat with had a very recognizable hair-style: too long to be fashionable, the locks curving over his collar _just so_.

John swore audibly.

_Laszlo_.

There was no chance Wissler hadn’t seen him by then.

To make matters worse, the man’s glare in the direction of the bar prompted Laszlo to shift in his seat and follow it. Recognizing John, he raised a hand and a soft smile touched his lips—about the most enthusiastic greeting one was likely to get out of Laszlo Kreizler.

But still, John was flooded with gratitude, managing to half-suffuse the violent, wordless jealousy that had already taken root. He sauntered over to the table, glass in hand.

“John,” Laszlo said. “I’d ask you to join us for an after-dinner sherry, but it appears you already have a libation.”

Giving a theatrical glance at the drink he held, almost as though it had materialized there while the three of them watched, John said, “I’m not above having one in each hand.”

Laszlo shook his head and gave a low, rueful chuckle.

It did not escape John’s notice that Wissler rolled his eyes.

“Do you prefer dry or sweet?” Laszlo asked the space between Wissler and John, being judicious.

“Oh, I like it sweet,” John cut in immediately, grinning.

Wissler cleared his throat, a disapproving noise. “I’ll confess I’m not one for sherry, myself. My mother drank it incessantly.”

“Are you often mistaken for your mother?” John asked.

Only the atmosphere of decorum kept Wissler in his seat, but the sudden spasm of his fists as they clenched did send a dinner knife clattering to the floor.

John would get a good scolding from Laszlo, but he was having far too much fun, having gotten the upper hand for the first time that evening.

“Will you excuse me, Laszlo?” Wissler asked stiffly. Then he glared up at John. “I’m afraid a sudden head-ache has come on.”

Laszlo shot John a warning look.

Oh, but he would not be denied a final _riposte_...not that Wissler had gotten a hit in at all. “I’d rather come on than fail to,” he said, at least resisting the urge to wink.

At that, Wissler lost his composure and stood up, the chair he’d been occupying making an awful scraping sound but by a stroke of fortune remaining upright. “Step outside if you’re so bold,” Wissler hissed. “We’ll see if your fists are as quick as your mouth.”

John heard Laszlo sigh and get to his feet.

“Gentlemen…” he began.

“I see no gentlemen here,” said Wissler.

John burst out laughing, enraging the man further. “Laszlo, did you hear that? You’re a low-life just like us!”

“I’ll settle the bill,” Laszlo said, quick and low. He reached out with obvious effort, using his weaker hand to tug at the sleeve of Wissler’s dinner jacket. “I thank you for your company and your insight, Clark. Let’s not cause a scene.”

Wissler, his eyes narrow and his gaze deadly, nevertheless paused a moment to take in the mood of the room. A few patrons had paused mid-meal, cutlery in hand, staring. He frowned, his nostrils flared, then turned back to the table. “I sincerely hope _you_ find your killer, Laszlo. Despite,” Wissler looked at John once more, “the obvious impediments.”

John raised his glass and shook it, rattling the chips of ice.

Wissler turned stiffly and stalked away.

Laszlo’s voice was tight beside him as John took a well-deserved drink. “Are you satisfied?”

“Quite.”

“I find there is little use in hyper-masculine posturing,” Laszlo said.

Eyebrows raised, John touched the corresponding spot on his own lip where Laszlo’s was still healing. “That, my dear fellow, is a lie.”

Laszlo’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Then the rueful smile returned to his soft mouth and he shook his head. “To be quite honest, John, I was growing tired of our Mr. Wissler’s company, anyway.”

“Really?”

A nod “Mm. For one so educated—or shall I say ‘experienced’—in the history of the Indian cultures of the West, I found his attitudes on human nature rather antiquated.”

The admission felt a bit like vindication for John in terms of his dislike for Wissler, not to mention his admiration for Laszlo. The Doctor was by far the keenest judge of character he had ever known, that perception being the underpinning of his success. John, boisterous from birth and used to careering headlong and heedless through life, had accumulated at least the sense to recognize that his friend had developed those powers of observation from an upbringing that was the mirror opposite of his own. He imagined a quiet, retiring child, passing his life peering in from outside. Studying his peers and elders as specimens in a zoological garden. Not for the first time, John felt a mix of pity for and envy of Laszlo, who had learned long ago what John himself might not figure out in a lifetime...but at the price of any comfort in the company of most men.

John also nurtured an unspoken hope that he might prove a sort of home to which his restless friend could return when overwhelmed by the injustice of the world at large. This was again not a thought without precedent. “How’s that?” he asked.

Gesturing to the now-empty chair across from him, Laszlo sat once again, folding the linen napkin into a neat square and placing it on the table-top. “It became quite clear during our conversation that Mr. Wissler’s respect for the peoples he studied is superficial. He has an almost... _prurient_ interest in savagery, but ascribes its manifestation solely to the Indians.”

“Any man can be savage, no matter his color,” John said.

Laszlo made an affirmative gesture, palm-up, with a delicate hand. “Precisely. Anywhere in the world, John, men are men. They fight—on the large scale or on the small; they carouse and indulge. There are those with honor and integrity and those without. In the Orient, in Africa, the Carib and Pacific islands. The painted peoples that the Australians call Aboriginal—even they maintain their own social order and moral boundaries, although these may be near-unrecognizable to their white neighbors.

“It cannot be any more ‘savage’ to grow up on the plains in a _tee-pee_ made of hides than it is to do so in a squalid tenement a few blocks from where we now sit. Men of all nations still murder and maim to defend their territory. Or what they see as theirs. Look at any one of the loathsome, brutal gangs that operate where our killer hunts his prey. Not only the prostitutes and drug-purveyors, John, but the honest shop-keepers and waste-haulers are beholden to them for protection.”

Laszlo’s stronger hand described great peaks and troughs in the air above the table as he spoke. At these moments, his voice grew confident and his posture assured. Knowledge, and pleasure therein, animated his features.

John never failed to find it riveting.

“In fact,” Laszlo continued, “I would argue that the underbelly of what we call ‘civilized society’ here can create far greater ranks of craven and violent men than can more primitive cultures. And even being born to the noble classes does not guarantee nobility of character. I am no great follower of the world’s holy books, but perhaps we _should_ bear in mind what is written in the book of Matthew: ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged.’”

“Hear, hear,” was all a stupefied John could manage at the end of it. He raised a glass that now sweated cool condensation onto the table-cloth. There rose in him at the same time such affection for Laszlo that any further words were cut off.  

The man across from him ducked his head, his cheeks flushed as if he had read the emotion in John’s mind. “I’m no orator,” Laszlo said.

“You’re passionate,” John said. “So you inspire passion.”

“Healing, my friend, is what I seek to inspire. That’s all.”

John shook his head, then tossed back the rest of the julip. “You cannot control what other people think of you.”

A slight tilt of his chin. “Sometimes I can,” said Laszlo. “In the way I behave toward them. I’m afraid I conducted myself... _shamefully_...with Sara.” He added: “And with you.”

Waving a hand, John shook his head. “Already forgotten.”

“You are more forgiving than most,” Laszlo told him. “I’m still not sure it is a strength or a weakness.”

“And they say women are supposed to be the ones who forgive easily,” John said, laughing. “I’ve got two angry with me.”

“What woman aside from Sara is angry with you?”

John shrugged. “That would be Mary.”

Laszlo’s brow creased. “How do you know?”

“She very nearly soaked me with dish-water,” John told him. “ _Dirty_ dish-water.”

For a brief second or two, Laszlo stared as if trying to discern truth in John’s expression. Then he gave a positively merry laugh, showing small, white, even teeth. “Those who don’t know Mary as I do would never suspect it, but she can be a firebrand.”

_As I do_. John tried to tamp down another wave of jealousy. Were Laszlo and Mary more intimate than he knew? Confidants, or perhaps more. He could imagine Laszlo would be wary of undue advantage of his diminutive housekeeper, but one never knew. Still, he brushed the feeling aside as best he could. “If I didn’t believe it before, I do now,” he said.

Laszlo’s expression turned serious, then, even worried. “I must take her boldness as an example and make amends to Sara, if possible. I have been _cowardly_ in my avoidance of it.”

“She understands,” John said, trying hard to make it seem genuine.

“It’s kind of you to say so,” Laszlo said, “but I would think less of anyone who would take such an offense passively. And I hold Miss Howard in high esteem.”

With nothing left to argue, John merely nodded.

“I believe I’ll forgo that sherry,” said Laszlo.

John gave another nod. “I was at Number 808 before I came here. If I know her, Sara is still there, burning the midnight oil.”

It was Laszlo’s turn to nod, solemn. “I’ll have them call Stevie around and put my ill-fated meal with Wissler on my tab.”

 

*

 

As John suspected, the lone lamp still shone in the window of the loft on Broadway. He and Laszlo made cautious steps up the creaking staircase.

When they reached the landing, Sara looked up, as did her dark-haired companion, whose hands she held in comfort or commiseration.

“Mary!” Laszlo said, hand over his chest, shocked.

At once, Sara stood up and shielded the cowering woman with her arm. The look she gave Laszlo dared him to scold his housemaid again for coming to their unofficial headquarters.

Laszlo held up a hand. “No,” he said. “It’s all right. It was unfair on my part to try to bar you from this place, Mary. I only thought to protect you.”

At that, she stood, drawing herself to a full height that was modest at best. Still, she looked proud and formidable. She put both hands over her ears first, then pulled them away. Next, she covered her eyes and uncovered them, afterward thrusting both hands sharply in Laszlo’s direction. Finally, she stabbed one finger behind her in the direction of the large chalk-board.

Looking quite chastened, Laszlo removed his hat and bowed his head. “Yes, you hear and see things pertaining to the case. It’s unavoidable, especially being in the company of Stevie and Cyrus.” Genuine pain flickered across his face. “I deeply regret my misguided attempt to shield you from it all. You are...stronger than I gave you credit for. I made a grave misstep.”

After a couple of tense seconds, Mary nodded.

Sara let her protective hand drop.

Even still, John felt the tension between the pair of men and the pair of women in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife. He didn’t dare look over at Laszlo, only hoping he would make good on his promise to humble himself before Sara.

Laszlo cleared his throat. “Sara,” he began. “That is, ah, _Miss Howard_ : I fear my privilege of familiarity is forfeit. You...exposed a rather tender spot in me. It was... _unexpected_. But you did so using commendable investigative work. And with only the utmost consideration for the integrity of this case.”

Careful to make small movements, John looked from Laszlo to Sara, the latter of whom positively quivered with her righteous anger. Flattery, an appeal to her independence: all were well and good. But nothing of what Laszlo had said so far acknowledged fault.

As for the man himself, he _was_ struggling.

A part of John ached for him; no man can easily weather being stripped of his pride. So fragile a thing, though—it was rather a wonder that women, whose collective pride was battered almost daily, were seen as weak and in need of protection. John pondered for a second on how the women of the plains Indian tribes were treated by their men-folk in comparison.

Haltingly, Laszlo continued to address Sara. “Your methods—and your ethics—have been unimpeachable throughout the brief period we’ve known each other. Mine, on the other hand, have _not_. Miss Howard, I deeply regret my actions on Ascension Night. I regret even more deeply my underestimation of your abilities.” His voice was tight. “Furthermore, I sincerely hope, if all of us are to continue our partnership, that you will allow me to spend the remainder of it, ah, making amends.”

When Sara let out a breath, it was as if the entire room sighed along. The fraught atmosphere began rapidly to dissipate in light of Laszlo’s unprecedented speech.

Solemn, Sara inclined her head. “Dr. Kreizler. Your apology is noted. And accepted.” She paused for a moment. “ _Provisionally_. I have discovered in the correspondence a promising lead. I would like to be allowed to pursue it personally. Also, Mary and I believe it is important that she be kept abreast of the developments in the case, even if just to reassure her of your continued safety and good judgment.”

John watched Laszlo’s jaw tense under the thickness of his beard.

“Very well,” Laszlo said.

“Grand,” John said, in an attempt to banish the remaining discomfort. “Shall we discuss this lead?”

Mary slapped her small palm on the table-top. Then she pointed to John.

It took him a couple of moments to take her meaning. “Right,” he said. “Fine. I regret my actions on the roof-top on Pentecost. Ah... _deeply_.”

Mary shook her head and pointed to Laszlo.

Fighting against rolling his eyes, John turned. “I’m sorry I hit you, Laszlo.”

Laszlo nodded, silent.

No public apology would be had on behalf of John’s blackened eye, but he was honestly too relieved to be peevish about it.

The two sides of the room—male and female—at last approached one another and the “fruitful partnership” was renewed. All present were soon excited about the circumstances presented by the Government Hospital for the Insane. It was agreed that Sara would travel to Washington to pursue the line of inquiry, accompanied by John for the appearance of legitimacy. Society did not give over its mistrust of independent women simply because a room full of progressive minds had done so.

Last, they pledged to re-convene the following day with the Isaacson brothers. John was determined to pry out a juicy tid-bit or two from Marcus, as well.

In what might have been the most difficult concession for Laszlo that evening, he agreed to allow Sara to see Mary home separately, though he insisted upon giving them fare for the hired hansom.

 

*

 

In Laszlo’s own calash on the way to his home, John felt boneless and weary, sapped by the events of the day.

Laszlo was silent and brooding, staring through the glass as they passed street-lamp after street-lamp.

John reckoned it was a symptom of nursing his his pride after his showy apology. Or concern for Mary’s welfare.

As it turned out, it was neither. “John,” Laszlo began, “what did you feel when your brother was drowning? At the moment you knew you would be unable to save him?”

The question blindsided John, knocked the breath from his lungs. They had never spoken in depth about the tragedy that shaped his adult life, whether he was willing to actively recognize it or not. He stammered, crumpling the hem of his jacket in hands suddenly damp. “Panic,” he finally let out. “So thick it was almost white, and I couldn’t see his hands reaching for me.” John grimaced, blinking back the stinging tears that threatened. “But at the same time, the end was so perfectly clear. Like...a door had shut in my mind and I would have to find another path for my life entirely.”

“An end,” Laszlo said, stroking his beard, “and a beginning.”

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, John said, “Something like that.”

There was a brief pause between them, the silence split by the soft snap of the reins against Frederick’s haunches.

“There has never been a longer moment in my life,” Laszlo said, finally. “I’m convinced of it.”

Again, John couldn’t be sure to what he was referring.

“It happened a month to the very day after the piano recital for which Sara found the notice,” Lazlo went on. “I was twelve years old.”

Tense expectation replaced fatigue in John’s muscles.

“When my father grabbed my arm, I heard it snap,” said Laszlo. “Twice in quick succession. In retrospect, it must have been the break in the radius and the ulna, one after another. There was no sound when my shoulder dislocated, though that was the pain I felt. Not the fractures.” His voice had gone flat and toneless. “At the top of the staircase, before the step that sent me over, that was when I knew I would never play again. The realization settled on me like a woolen blanket, or a fog. It dulled the pain simply because it was so, well, _reassuringly_ certain. I had reached my crossroads to find the path forward blocked.”

He paused to brush the hair away from his forehead—on the right side first, then the left, then right again, all with his good hand. “And then I fell. It took a lifetime, John. I didn’t have the benefit of your white panic. Instead, I saw the grain of the wood on each step as it passed. Felt the edge of the stair—as I recall, it was half-way down—that shattered the humerus and, coincidentally, set the shoulder joint back into place. Then, all at once, I lay on my back at the foot of the stairs. The ceiling was covered with... _stars_. My mother screamed for a very long time, but she did not touch me. She had difficulty doing so after the incident, yet I hardly noticed. She had never been overly physically affectionate.”

John’s throat went dry. He gnawed the inside of his cheek in silent agony for the small boy starved of any touch but his father’s rage.

“I had my lessons at home with a tutor, of course,” Laszlo said. “We had no visitors. Certainly no more recitals. My father set the arm, splinted and bound it to my side for weeks. But he was no doctor. In the fourth or fifth day of my handicap, I knew _I_ would become one in his stead.” He shifted in his seat, pulling himself upright, regaining the familiar composure. “I know my father spent the remainder of his life atoning within himself for what he did. For a long time, knowing that still gave no comfort, as I had to pay for it, as well. With his death, the book was closed. Now I barely remember the interior of my boyhood home, much less the grain of its wooden stairs.”

John wasn’t sure whether to believe that last statement. As for himself, he knew he would remember his brother’s wide eyes disappearing below the murk of Lake Erie until he closed his own eyes for the final time.

At the entrance to his carriage house, Laszlo pressed a coin into Stevie’s palm as though he were a cab driver and sent him off to brush Frederick down and clean the tack and fittings.

John followed Laszlo upstairs unbidden.

“I’m very tired, John,” Laszlo said at the door to his bedroom. It sounded like an admission to more than simple exhaustion from the day.

Again, John’s heart clenched in his chest.

“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind…” said Laszlo, gesturing toward his boots.

“Not at all,” John told him.

Laszlo stood by the edge of his bed, which was made up with precise corners and perfect lines, likely by Mary. It looked unslept-in, impersonal.

John stooped to pry out the stiff buttons of Laszlo’s shoes from their button-holes.

After they were removed, Laszlo sighed with great relief, leaning back against the mattress.

John wondered if it was hard and overstuffed or if Laszlo allowed himself some secret comfort at night. “May I ask you something?”

Laszlo looked over at him with a neutral expression but said nothing.

Scrubbing a hand through his untidy hair (which needed a wash), John asked, “Do you have...feelings for Mary?”

Laszlo gave a slim smile and huffed a breath. “I believed I did. Once. She is a brighter mind than most will ever know. I fear sometimes she thinks I see her as a child.”

“You let her know that’s not the case tonight.”

“Hopefully not too late,” said Laszlo. He shrugged off his jacket and placed it on the bed. “Do you have any romantic intention toward Sara?”

It was John’s turn to smile. “Like you, I thought I did. When it comes to Sara, _my_ intentions don’t matter. Nor do any man’s. She won’t be tied down.”

“And she believes romantic attachment does just that.”

“Yes,” John said. “I highly suspect she’ll end up a spinster. The most contented spinster a person could know.” He paused. “But she is beautiful. As is Mary.”

“Yes,” said Laszlo. “Perhaps, indeed, my notions of romance were merely physical allure disguised.”

John laughed, a brief sound. “I’ve made that mistake. Likely will again.” He, too, leaned against the bed, sighing at the mild relief for his sore feet. The mattress, to his pleased surprise, had adequate give for his tastes. After a moment, he shrugged. “Who knows? It might not be a bad thing. To use a substitute for love until love returns.”

“I couldn’t use Mary that way,” Laszlo said.

John shook his head. “I wasn’t suggesting it. There are...other outlets.”

Laszlo frowned. “I’m not sure I could use the same outlets that you do. It’s not in my nature, I’m afraid.”

“What’s in your nature, then?”

With a self-deprecating smile, Laszlo raised and brandished his left hand, the strong one.

At that, John threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing around the room. “The last resort of every man.”

They sat for a time in the comfortable silence of longtime companionship and shared experience.

“Thank you, John,” Laszlo said at last.

“For what?”

“Your tolerance, I suppose. Your support, when I can often be...insupportable.”

“What I said was true, Laszlo,” John told him. “I don’t want to lose you.” The addendum, _As a friend_ , stuck in his throat, however.

Laszlo nodded, then looked away toward the bedstead. A triangular swath of the pale skin of his neck showed above the collar, through the curtain of his hair.

Before John could stop himself, he was brushing that hair aside with a trembling hand and leaning in to press his lips to the space above the fabric. He pushed his fingers further into Laszlo’s hair, skating across his nape, and kissed him again just below his ear. Then he took the soft earlobe between his lips and sucked gently for a moment or two.

Laszlo’s sigh could have been mistaken for the muffled rush of wind below the eaves, but it distilled John’s desire just as surely as if he were watching a beautiful woman start to undress.

He hooked a forefinger underneath Laszlo’s stiff collar and opened his mouth over the bared skin, tasting salt and the faint bitterness of hair cream. His other hand he placed on Laszlo’s waistcoat, then drew it down his belly to the warm juncture of his legs. It was altogether brazen, but Laszlo made no attempt to evade the touch. After a moment’s fumbling, John discovered the reason why, feeling the first twitch of the man’s cock as it filled out and rose. The response his touches drew from Laszlo’s body was almost immediate, then. John had experienced the same dizzying sensation after one of his few dry spells. It likely had Laszlo seeing stars again, though this time for the much more amenable fact of his capacity for reason fleeing in a rush.

John skimmed his teeth along the patch of skin on Laszlo’s neck now reddened and wet from his attentions. He set about at the same time unbuttoning his trousers with mindless haste.

Laszlo nearly choked, shoulders spasming, as John reached into his flannel drawers to take him in hand. Giving John a pleasant surprise, he used his good hand to tug at his trousers and undergarments until the fabric was crumpled around his hips.

A sporting man for a long time, John had much experience seeing the unclothed male form. But this was the first time he’d had his hand around a cock that was not his own. As they went, he judged hazily, Laszlo’s was quite fine: well shaped with fair heft, and smooth to the touch. John let loose of Laszlo’s collar and instead seized him around the waist, pulling him and settling him between his own legs for better access. The lean body in his arms writhed and bowed with the first stroke, then leaned into the next, and the next. Although the exchange had been so far silent, Laszlo conveyed no uncertainty. He breathed quickly, rather, pressing his hips forward. John held him vise-tight with his free arm, eager at the man’s eagerness and swiftly growing hard himself.

When Laszlo clutched at John’s trouser-clad leg, his clipped finger-nails biting through the fabric, John knew he was close to his peak. Following another one or two flicks of his wrist, Laszlo gave a heavy sigh and promptly spilt over the Persian rug.

He regained his breath over the next few moments, eyes shut tight.

John freed his hand and wiped the palm unceremoniously on the bedclothes, scattering kisses over Laszlo’s shoulder as he did so. He made certain to draw Laszlo back against him, demonstrating his own arousal. It had been too damned long a wait and he refused to leave the house unsatisfied.

“John,” Laszlo said at last, his voice barely audible. “Would you...show me?”

“Do you mean—?”

“Yes.” It was a whisper.

“All right,” John said, now frantic. “Sure. Yes.”

Laszlo moved away and sat again on the bed, neglecting to right his clothing. He looked not at John’s face but at where John struggled with his own flies and yanked at the fabric of his drawers.

Grasping his own cock was blessed, familiar relief. John leaned back, resting his head on the soft mattress, and let sensation guide him. Without looking, he knew Laszlo was watching his hand as it worked its instinctual pattern. Doing this came as naturally as combing one’s hair or raising a fork to one’s mouth to eat.

When John looked up, he saw Laszlo wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, and he became certain he wouldn’t last long, either. Not that he had failed to weigh the importance of impression against satisfaction.

Bringing Laszlo to his climax so easily held the same gratification as doing so with a woman. This time it was magnified, made kaleidoscopically strange given his new-found enthrallment.

Or was it new at all? Had he been experiencing precisely the opposite of what they had spoken about only a few minutes before? Not entirely, he decided. Maybe the surge of envy he’d had in recent days masked the physical pull, but he had always admired Laszlo and would continue to, regardless of any shift in their interaction.

That and any other consideration ceased to matter, though, when a slim hand encircled John’s unoccupied wrist. He let loose a groan to signal his building release.

Laszlo’s fingers tightened around his wrist in response.

John dared again to look at Laszlo’s face, which was rapt: lips parted and eyes shining. Recognizing the hunger there, he was done for. The muscles of his stomach and thighs contracted sharply and he wound up spilling largely over his own naked belly and the thatch of dark hair below his navel. Relieved and giddy, he let his head fall back once more against the coverlet.

Laszlo raised John’s hand and pressed a warm kiss to the inside of his wrist.

A few moments later, when the front door opened to admit Mary, John thought— _quite_ uncharitably—that even if the killer surprised him unawares, he would never feel so rudely interrupted as he did just then.


End file.
